


The King's Mirror

by WiggityFresh



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Light Angst, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WiggityFresh/pseuds/WiggityFresh
Summary: The Master of Chaldea finally summons the King of Knights, to the happiness of the Knights of the Round.However, something about their King is wrong, and puts them on edge.-Fic where Saber Alter is summoned all of the Knight's experiences with her. Each chapter is from the perspective of a different knight.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 78





	1. Worthless

**Author's Note:**

> For this fic I decided that Mordred, Tristan, Gareth, Gawain and Bedivere would use 'he/him' pronouns concerning Artoria but that's just for personal flair. Sorry for any confusion--
> 
> Anyways this is my self-indulgent short Fate fic since I managed to pull Salter and now I just need 3 more knights to finish my Chaldea Round Table. So this is also my summoning catalyst for when they roll around.

_‘This Father is wrong’._

That was the first thing she thought, once the Master of Chaldea finished his summoning ritual. A figure stepped out from the massive, swirling wave of golden energy. The small, yet intimidating silhouette of the King of Knights slowly becoming more and more intelligible. His skin was too pale. His eyes, his proud eyes, were covered by a thick, heavy visor. His young, boyish features seemed almost corpse-like compared to how beautiful they were beforehand. His armor was bulky, constantly heavy as if forever prepared to be on the warpath. 

This wasn’t the Father that Mordred despised. The Father that had so callously denied her the throne she had deserved. 

She scowled, turning away and leaving the summoning chamber, filled with nothing but the hollow sense of disappointment.

Days passed, and Mordred found herself avoiding the King that she had so proudly declared her enemy days before. She didn’t know why. This was King Arthur Pendragon. The King of Knights. The Wielder of the Holy Blade.

And yet.

She would feel no satisfaction from killing this King of Knights. 

However, there was something about this Father that could truly satisfy her. The cold exterior of this twisted King of Knights. His harsh words, each syllable like a glistening icicle. From this Father, she could finally find her truth. The satisfaction that she had been waiting on for so very long. The justification of the rage and injustice that fueled her very existence as a Heroic Spirit. 

She managed to corner him as he exited Chaldea’s cafeteria with a renewed sense of pride. Arthur was still wearing his heavy armor, but the thick black visor that had covered his features was removed. The confidence that Mordred had felt in her approach moments earlier plummeted.

The eyes of the King. Mordred had remembered them as prideful, yet saddened. Burdened by the weight of the crown. More beautiful than Mordred could ever hope to be. The eyes of this… person. A sickly, tainted yellow, filled with nothing but malice and indulgence. Swirling with a cold sense of humanity that her King- her true King would never show.

“Did you need something, Mordred?” The King of Knights spoke calmly, each of her words laced with harsh barbs. A conflicting feeling twisted at Mordred’s heart. To hear her Father finally say her name was a blessing, but the cold indifference- as if Mordred was nothing more than a fly- caused her own resolve to continue its downward spiral, her sense of worth and existence dwindling like the pathetic embers of a dying father.

“This is where we settle things, Father.” Mordred finally spoke, forcing all of her pride through the dryness of her throat. “Your flaws as a King are more apparent now, and so is your hatred for me.” Mordred held out her hand, the heavy blade of Clarent appearing within her grasp. A call of combat. A challenge between knights.

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she saw her King smile. 

And she hated it.

There was no happiness in the smirk that twitched at the King's lips, no sense of joy. Just the dry, empty facade of amusement. 

“What?” Mordred asked, baring her teeth. “Do you think this is a joke, King of Knights?! Do you--” Her words were cut short from shock. The interruption not from any physical blow- she would have preferred if her King had cleaved her head from her shoulders in an instant for her insolence instead of the alternative. Instead…

He simply walked away. Brushing past her shoulder with the arrogant, proud stature befitting of a ruler. 

Her jaw trembled as she turned, watching as the man she idolized left once again. Her eyes were wide, straining and twitching as they tried to comprehend his majesty as she was once more left in the shadows. “Arthur… you…”

Her throat burned as she suppressed a yell, before finally breaking into bitter, pained laughter. Her legs felt weak, dropping to one knee, her heavy blade straining to support her. “I see… so your words on Camlann were true…”

Despite her treachery, the King of Knights truly never harbored hate for her. Despite her arrogance, the King of Knights never wished for her demise. Despite her foolishness, the King of Knights never sought for her recompense.

Mordred grit her teeth, her shoulders shaking. Her cheeks felt slick, and she wasn’t sure if it was sweat or tears.

“Arthur… Arthur…! See me, Arthur…!” She pleaded to nobody. “Aren’t I loathsome enough…? I destroyed everything… I ruined your dream…! So why… why won’t you...?”

Worse than hatred. Worse than judgement.

She was truly nothing in her King's eyes.


	2. Pitiful

Sir Tristan had made a… point not to visit his regent, even after news of Arthur’s arrival. To put it simply, he didn’t have the right to. He had made his relationship with the King clear during their last meeting, where he had admonished his superior as callous and misunderstanding, unable to discern and understand the hearts of those who the ever-virtuous King of Knights ruled. 

He had wished to be wrong, nothing would make him happier to have his pitiful words be proven wrong. But he lacked the conviction to test them, even now. To face Arthur after leaving so arrogantly… how sad would he truly be?

However, his curiosity was ever-present. He had heard whispers concerning his former king, terms such as ‘altered’ and ‘corrupted’ thrown around without hesitation. Terms that he knew, for a true fact, could never apply to Arthur Pendragon. The King that he had accused of being too perfect, and left when his assistance could have proven vital. That King, that unshakeable, splendid King could not be corrupted. 

‘A curse’. Had his words, his own fears, infested the unblemished heart of the King of Knights? In Arthur’s attempt to learn- no, re-learn his humanity, had he fallen down to a path of darkness and shame? 

He found himself in one of Chaldea’s vast hallways, fingers delicately picking at the strings of his harp, his back to the large window that overlooked the pale white wasteland that surrounded the cold, steel building. The Master of Chaldea enjoyed his music, often trying to put him and the other musically-inclined Servants together, as if experimenting. To see that music truly was universal, even with the myriad of cultures at present. 

However now, he wasn’t singing for the Master, or those who shared in his somber passion. He sang to himself, his voice quiet and haunting. The words unintelligible. He himself couldn’t tell if he were singing a lullaby or a ballad, a poem draped in sadness or simply empty verses. Improvisation truly at it’s finest, he supposed. If the musician themselves was unaware of their own actions, was that simply ignorance or genius?

The King stood by him. Neither of them truly turned to face one another. Tristan’s eyes were locked on his harp, and Arthur’s locked onto the blanket of snow that covered the world outside. 

Ah… how sad. To be unable to face the King even now. Their sins as Servants should not exist, their second chance at life cleaning the slate of their misgivings so they may project their intentions toward the future. And yet…

His playing crawled to a halt and his voice died out, his own thoughts overlapping and interrupting the empty-minded improvisation he had. As his fingers slowed to a crawl, Arthur simply turned and left, his footsteps growing more distant. He looked up, finally pulling his eyes up to head-height, and only being able to see the back of the pure King’s head. His pale blonde hair swaying gently as the King of Knights exited the premises.

His eyes opened for a brief moment, as if splashed by cold water. The King wasn’t one for worthless, empty actions. Then… Arthur had been listening to his music? His dull, empty song with no true end had captured the ear of the cold, inhuman king? But the simple truth was there. He didn’t seek Arthur, wandering the halls hoping to see his face once more. Arthur had found him, like before, and chose to spend his precious time listening to the feeble notes of a sad man.

He wondered if the King had loved his music in life, too? He rarely played for the King. For his fellow knights, of course, but the idea of wasting his lord’s busy time with something as paltry as a song seemed ridiculous.

But… perhaps even the most ridiculous of ideas had credence. His ideas, his actions, were fueled by nothing short of assumptions. Assumptions leading to a chain reaction of mistakes, betrayal, and a hollow ending.

How sad. His own sins, a meager chain of words, still clung onto his soul with no sense of respite. The simple idea that his King could not understand the hearts of those he ruled. His greatest regret hung over him as he was alone once more.

Still… a bittersweet smile seemed to cross the pitiful knight’s lips. This moment. One moment out of thousands- an action that could be considered meaningless in the grander scheme of the world, confirmed one boring, yet pleasant truth.

His greatest regret had been nothing more than worthless hearsay. How sad.


	3. Idealistic

The staff of Chaldea found themselves stepping out of the way nervously, as a hulking, caped figure made his way down the halls with a purposeful and intimidating stride. If one were to discern the expression on Sir Gawain’s face, it would be closest to anger. A rare emotion for the generally cordial and collected knight, but this was an occasion that certainly warranted such a storm of emotions.

Simply, because current accounts of the King’s summoning didn’t seem to make any sense. An ‘Altered’ King Arthur. One that drew inspiration from cruelty rather than compassion. Draped in the black garments befitting a tyrant, rather than the regal blues befitting that of a regent. 

Shamefully, he had lashed out toward his Master at this news, his own anger overtaking his sense of reason. Not too far as for Chaldea’s Master to use a Command Spell, but regretful nonetheless. So, he simply made his leave so as to not disgrace himself further.

He simply had to see it for himself. Slander about his king was one thing, but for it to have even a modicum of truth filled him with such an indescribable set of emotions. He swore that he would follow the king, but if Arthur had been… ‘altered’ into something so far from his original state, then his own path had become clouded once again. 

Soon enough, he reached his mark. Despite the black armor that cloaked the regents' small body, the regal authority that came with a rule was unmistakable. That same presence that he had sworn his life toward.

“King Arthur.” Gawain called out, sternly. The figure clad in darkness turned around, Gawain’s shimmering blue eyes being met with the wry, golden gaze of his king. 

“Sir Gawain.” He replied, echoing Gawain’s own sternness.

So, this was King Arthur. The- formerly- incorruptible King of Knights. His eyes narrowed. “Despite wielding your holy blade, I’ve heard that this summoning has rendered you anything but.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, fully turning to face him. “I see your term as a Servant has given you quite the tongue, Sir Gawain. You would have never spoken so brazenly in my court.”

Gawain couldn’t disagree. Speaking against his King like this would be a normally impossible and inconceivable occurrence, but… he truly felt as if he needed to. If his words had to be harsher than normal, that was fine, but perhaps they could push the King back toward the correct path. “...I apologize, King Arthur, but your appearance has clouded my reason somewhat. You present yourself as a tyrant, like your uncle before you? That is not the King Arthur I chose to follow.”

The golden gaze narrowed, burning into the knight. “And if I say that perhaps my uncle had a point? Then what would you do, Sir Gawain? Admonish me further? Speak with even more insolence?”

He was taken aback. The mere thought of the Tyrant Ruler Vortigern having a ‘point’ was… shocking. This ‘Alter’ was truly a creature in his own right. The beautiful, proud King Arthur that once heralded soldiers towards certain victory… this Alter only shared a name with his King. 

“...What could have pushed you to such a conclusion, my King?” Gawain asked.

Arthur’s already hard stare seemed to become petrifying, as if Gawain was under a magnifying glass, and the answer soon became apparent.

It was them.

Camelot’s fall had been an embarrassing comedy of errors, filled with miscommunication and harsh emotions, even from the perceived ‘emotionless’ king. If Arthur had just been a bit more strict- held the reigns a little tighter- then perhaps things may have turned out differently. That had to be what the young ruler believed.

And yet… “I respectfully disagree. Your might came from your heart, not from an iron fist.” Gawain retorted.

With a flash, Arthur summoned his sacred blade, a wave of dark mana wafting past Gawain’s ear. The Knight of the Sun didn’t flinch, his own gaze beginning to harden. Arthur’s intentions, for the first time in a long time, were blindingly clear.

A challenge. A duel.

Between the corrupted holy blade of the planet, and the shining holy blade of the sun. A clash of ideals, between the ones this dark king held, and the ideals that Gawain had held so dear from his true ruler. Who would he be as a knight to deny such a request? 

He drew his own sword, giving his king a polite nod, earning a wry smirk in return.

For what seemed like an eternity, Chaldea’s simulator burned with the heat of a thousand suns.


	4. Calling

Mash hadn’t expected the King of Knights to get into so much trouble. Dragging the two warring Servants from the simulator was enough of a hassle, and even Da Vinci almost had a heart attack after seeing how much mana had been drained from both Chaldea’s engines and her senpai. The only real benefit seemed to be that Artoria’s armor had been removed, most likely broken off, and her saint graph had transmuted into something more… elegant.

But still...

“You’re worrying far too much.” Artoria spat, as Mash continued to check the king’s vitals. “I’ve endured far worse injuries in life. This was only a mere spat.”

The demi-Servant clicked her tongue, shaking her head meekly. “...Sorry to contradict you, but the amount of power the both of you were putting out would have destroyed your physical bodies several times over.” The only thing stopping them from being bisected, smouldering corpses was the fact they were already ‘ghosts’ in a sense. Really, she didn’t know why but she felt like scolding the both of them. There was a sense of disappointment as well, as if she would have never expected King Artoria Pendragon of all people to so callously waste her own power and resources.

“Don’t give me that look.”

Mash blinked. She hadn’t realized she had been staring at Artoria, with some expression that seemed to displease the young king. 

“Didn’t you hear me, fool? Stop looking at me with that ‘holier-than-thou’ expression. Is the examination done?”

Mash nodded quickly. “A-ah, yes Miss Artoria!” With a curt scoff, the King stood up, making her leave.

Without realizing it, Mash found herself. When she had heard that her Senpai was going to try and summon the legendary King Arthur, a part of her felt so… excited. No, she had felt ‘excited’ when he summoned heroic spirits such as Cu Chulainn or Hans Christian Andersen. It had been a different feeling of anticipation, a mixture of both relief and elation, as if everything was going to be alright as soon as King Arthur Pendragon was on the battlefield with her awe-inspiring gilded blade. The feeling that victory was all but assured.

She had always made a point to attend each of Senpai’s major summonings. Just so she could be there to comfort him if the catalyst ended up being a failure, or celebrate with him when bright lights of the summoning circle shone like a beautiful rainbow. 

But… part of her had wanted to leave the summoning room immediately once Artoria Alter had been called. She thought she had no personal grudge against the Servant- the one in Fuyuki had just been one ‘possibility’, and holding Servants accountable for what occurred in Singularities- well it was a case-by-case judgement. But finally calling her here, seeing her in person, feeling Artoria’s majesty outside the battlefield…

Mash couldn’t help but feel a bit sick at the blackened aura. The Heroic Spirit that rested inside her seemed to finally stir, her own feelings pushing her to want to yell and throw a tantrum. And while she couldn’t truly understand a feeling like that beforehand, after her experiences in Camelot- it seemed far too clear.

Mash’s- or rather _his_ disgust and disdain towards the actions of the Lion King were incredibly similar. To see another Arthur, to have such hopes crushed by unintentionally summoning yet another tyrannical version of the man who Sir Galahad held in such high regard. Still, Mash felt as though she could give the Alter a chance. After all, she did answer her Senpai’s call to save humanity… right? Still, no matter how much she tried to think about it, there seemed to be some sort of contradiction. A clash between the ideals of Chaldea and villainous Altered Servant.

“W-wait, Miss Artoria…” Mash held out a hand. Artoria had almost left the room, turning to face the demi-Servant with an annoyed look.

Right. Of course a king like Saber Alter would hold a knight that valued such purity in low regard. Artoria raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting the girl to speak. Mash cleared her throat, trying to drum up her own confidence to ask her question.

“...Why did you answer Senpai’s call?”

Artoria stared at Mash for what seemed like an eternity, before rolling her eyes. “I thought you were going to ask me a proper question, Mash Kyrielight. Not something foolish with an obvious answer.” Without giving any more of her opinion on the matter, King Artoria Pendragon fully made her leave, her black dress flowing accompanied by her harsh, swift footsteps.

Mash fiddled her thumbs. Had her question been that hollow? She sat down with a sigh, holding her head in her hands. An eerily familiar sense of exasperation seemed to wash over her.

“...Was King Artoria always this difficult…?”


	5. Regrets

She didn’t know that Servants could get tired, but Sir Gareth found her own chest growing tighter. He was here. She just knew that he was here. She sprinted down the winding, looping hallway that circumvented the entirety of Chaldea. She had been summoned mere moments ago- and she was certainly going to apologize to her new Master- but she had something incredibly important to do first. She lost her footing for a moment, stumbling as her heavy armor banged into the steel wall, before continuing forward. She finally caught sight of him. A figure, wearing elegant black clothes.

“My king! My king!” She yelled. Arthur turned back to face her, his own eyebrows lifting somewhat. Gareth finally caught up. “...I… I--”

Her words were caught in her throat. Her mouth felt dry. She tried to speak again, before finding herself choked up. Her legs felt weak, trembling before she dropped to her knees, her shoulders shaking. “Finally… finally…” She repeated over and over, as if she was a broken record. 

“Speak, Sir Gareth.” Came a stern, yet calm voice. Arthur’s words seemed to be all that she needed, finally mustering up the courage to look him in the eyes again.

“...I… I’m so happy to see you again. But… I’m sorry! I’m so sorry…!” She felt her cheeks growing slick with tears, the corners of her eyes beginning to sting. Her head dropped again as she clenched her jaw. What was there to say to her King now? She knew she wouldn’t be able to atone for not seeing him- for not seeing Arthur and Camelot through to the end. For a long moment, there was silence. It weighed heavily on Gareth, as she felt King Arthur’s cold, oppressive gaze on her, before he finally spoke again.

“You were slain by Sir Lancelot, correct?”

She nodded, weakly. She remembered the day vividly. The vacant, distressed look in Sir Lancelot’s eyes as he charged forward. Nothing was reflected in his berserk, enraged gaze except for the helpless form of Sir Guinevere. He didn’t see the soldiers he was fighting back. The people who were begging him to stop. So, when her skull had been split in two, she didn’t die with confusion or sadness. Just… acceptance.

“So you died before you could witness my fall at Camlann?” 

Gareth nodded again, her lip quivering. 

“So be it, then.”

Gareth blinked the tears from her eyes, finally looking up towards her lord again. “...But… but my King…”

“For many people in this world, there are few things that are certain. One of those things is death. You were a remarkable knight Gareth, but you weren’t immortal. You were meant to fall, just as I was.” Arthur said, his cold, golden gaze fixated on the young knight. Still, despite the new, terrifying presence that the King radiated, Gareth could still feel the warmth. The same warmth from the same heart that she had pledged her lance to. “Still, if you’re anything like your mentor, a mere pardon won’t be enough, will it?”

Arthur folded his arms, sighing as he shook his head. “Fine. Sir Gareth, here is what you must do to truly atone for your sins.”

The young knight nodded quickly and expectantly, her own pitiful gaze locked tightly with the intense glare from her regent. “I’ll do anything for you, my King.”

“Good. Then see this ‘Grand Order’ through to the end with me. If you couldn’t see the ending before, then you owe it to us all to see it now.” With one flawless motion, Arthur summoned his blackened holy sword, before resting the blade on Gareth’s right shoulder, and then her left. “In addition, I never want to see you cry from your failures again. If you are to be my knight, then you will hold your head high at both your misgivings and your successes. Now stand, Sir Gareth.”

She forced herself onto her feet, still feeling a bit weak, but mustering as much strength as she could. Arthur nodded, before waving his hand in a dismissive fashion. “You may go. You were just recently summoned, correct? Do not waste your time with me. Sir Gawain is around here somewhere.”

Gareth nodded. “...Yes, my King! I’ll see you again! I’ll make you proud, I promise!” She bowed, before turning and sprinting off in the other direction. It had happened so fast, she had almost missed how scary the king looked now, but he was still as kind and true as ever.

She just knew it.


	6. Foolish

This new king was crueler than the older one. Lancelot accepted that. There was no need to hem and haw over the logistics, this was not the Artoria Pendragon he knew, and yet it was the one he desired.

Such treacherous thoughts seemed unbecoming of one of the cardinal knights of the Round Table, but he had fallen from grace far too long to worry about that. Even when summoned as a Saber- in his ‘prime’- his own spirit had been far too corrupted by his own misdeeds for him to truly appreciate the miracle of his ‘rebirth’. He cared deeply for the Chaldean Master, but there were times where he silently cursed the fact that he had been summoned in such a lucid state. Part of him yearned to be a Berserker, to have his thoughts muddled and clouded with madness.

But unfortunately, here he was. The glorious Sir Lancelot, facing down the darkened King Arthur.

The eyes of the altered Artoria were unfamiliar. He remembered the ones that he had associated with one of his closest friends with an intimacy that seemed almost too close for a King and his vassal. Artoria’s eyes were the brilliant green of the morning fields, filled with the tranquility of rustling grass in the early morning, and the undisturbed peacefulness of untouched land. Eyes that were accepting, yet distant, as if gazing to a place far and away from the world before her. A far cry from the piercing yellow ones that glared at him with disdain. 

No, this faux ruler was not the person he had pledged his knightship to. Hardly the one who he had betrayed in his own shameful tryst. And yet, he found himself kneeling. For one reason, and one reason alone.

If this was a cruel Arthur. One wrought with tyranny and hatred, filled with the human emotions that she hadn’t let herself experience in life, then perhaps he could find the punishment for what he had done. To be beheaded by the holy sword was an honor he didn’t deserve, and yet perhaps he could truly rest if he got the comeuppance he had been searching for.

“Stand, Sir Lancelot.” 

Artoria spoke, her voice coated in venom. Hatred. Arrogance. A tone that almost seemed to do her a disservice on all accounts. He raised his head, the two knights locking eyes. He wanted to look away, flinch and step back. Her golden gaze was like staring into the noon sun, as own eyes feeling as if they’d burn away and out of their sockets if he dared to look at her for longer. His head dropped once more, before he felt the cold metal of a blade press against his chin, and force him to look up once more. 

“I said to stand.” She repeated. He did as he was asked, towering over her, yet feeling smaller than ever. 

“How pathetic. To let something such as this define you as a Servant.” She spat. “You’re being nothing more than a burden. If you can’t be a knight, be a Servant. If you can’t be a Servant,” She tossed the holy blade on the ground, watching as it clattered before Lancelot’s feet. “Then take responsibility yourself, so you don’t weigh down our Master any more.”

Lancelot stared at the sword. The request was simple. His hands, blessed to be able to expertly wield any blade they grasped, could have ended him without much thought. And the fact that Artoria had offered her own blade- forged by the fairies and blessed by the heavens- to do such a grim deed meant that she was wholly serious. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t go for the blade.

“You’re hesitating.” She sighed, picking up Excalibur. “Then you chose to live. You’ve already suffered your punishment, Sir Lancelot. Any more, and you’re simply annoying those who don’t deserve it.” She turned around, leaving without a second thought, her elegant black dress drifting behind her as if she was a hallowed wraith rather than a renowned king.

“Sir Lancelot.” He heard her say, quickly turning around to face her. She didn’t do him the same justice, her back still to him.

“...Never bother me with something so trivial again, unless you want to pass on carrying more shame than you arrived with.”

Her words echoed. First in the empty halls, and then within his own head. Whether it had been the King’s intention or not, he had faced his punishment and his penance. That had to be the truth, or else the King that radiated such malice and evil would have done the job herself. Still, something had been bothering him. The King seemed curt. Irritated. Hurt. He had thought it was because he had simply been wasting her precious time, but...

“Ah…” Centuries had passed since they had encountered each other in their right minds. “...I…” Centuries since he had seen one of his closest friends, and their very first interaction had been continuing the foolishness that forced them apart. He felt sick to his stomach, kneeling once more.

“...I am truly sorry, Arthur…”

What a foolish knight- what a foolish man he was.


	7. Wishing

It didn’t take long to find his king. Bedivere simply wandered to the mess hall, and found him sitting at one of the metallic tables, a tray resting in front of him stacked with whatever the staff had decided to prepare. Bedivere smiled slightly to himself, watching as the ever acclaimed King of Knights enjoyed his own personal feast.

...Or ‘her feast’, perhaps was a more appropriate way to address his king now. 

Thinking back, it was a relatively poor deception. King Arthur’s soft features had been explained away as a result of the sacred sword halting her aging. But her voice and her slight frame. The idea of her being a woman the entire time seemed almost hilariously obvious, and put the competency of her closest friends and retainers under speculation.

Of course, to see Arthur as a woman would mean to see her as a person first. 

He thought back. 

To the day that Arthur had lost, during the Battle of Camlann. Bedivere had grabbed his King’s body, lighter than even the fairest of Camelot’s women, and rode as far as he could away from the accursed battlefield. Believing foolishly that if he could just remove Arthur from the threat, then she would heal. She would become whole again, and Camelot in her stead. 

His teeth had been grit so hard with terror he feared they would shatter. The only reason his vision wasn’t blurred by tears was that his loyalty wouldn’t allow it. He needed to see to carry his sovereign to safety. His attention had been locked on the path ahead as his horse galloped, but every so often he would glance down. Arthur’s eyes would drift open and closed. Normally glittering with a far off sense of hope, they were glazed over. Reality becoming nothing more than a fleeting dream.

‘What pain my lord must be in’, Bedivere thought. ‘But all will be fine, for the dragon of Camelot shall be everlasting’.

A lie. An empty set of hopes. That's all his thoughts were.

They had found shade. So far away from the battlefield, he let her rest under a tree. He hardly remembered what they discussed, but he remembered her voice so clearly. So tired. Exhausted, yet hopeful. She was so small. She seemed so… weak. 

...What a foolish thought. Her frame aside, she had the strength to carry Camelot forward and onward for years alone. The strength of King Arthur Pendragon didn’t come from physicality, that belonged to Lancelot and Gawain. Not from wit either, that belonged to Sir Tristan and Sir Kay. Not even from overwhelming purity, as such an honor belonged to the young Sir Galahad and the wise Sir Percival.

No, the king's strength came from somewhere else.

In that moment, the illusion seemed to shatter, and Bedivere reached a terrifying realization. That the king was more similar to him than any of her esteemed knights. Arthur had an understanding heart. The wish to learn from others, and guide others, and yet lived within a paradox. A ruler that grew too close to the people risked favoritism, a ruler that grew too distant risked revolt. No kingdom was meant to last forever, a constant tug-of-war between the wants of the people, and the want to prosper. To dance that fine line for years would be too hard for any human to bear.

So she gave up being human. 

She loved her citizens from a distance. She ruled from far above where none could see her. How lonely had she been? The ruling King of Knights, who gave up her own heart for the sake of others.

“...Bedivere.”

He was shaken from his thoughts by a cold voice. He realized he had been staring at Arthur for an embarrassingly long while, and bowed his head as he drew closer.

“...My apologies, my king.” He said, sheepishly, sitting across from her as she took another bite from her sandwich. A… ‘burger’, he supposed the term was, considering knowledge from the Grail. 

“I’m not your king.” She said, between chews. Her tone was curt and irritated, as if she was trying to skip past this conversation as fast as possible. “Thinking of me as such will only lead to disappointment.”

In all accounts, he supposed she had a point. The elegant black gown she wore was something that Arthur would have never worn in life. Her icy tone was a voice that had never fallen upon Camelot before. The aura radiating from her was only comparable to the tyrant king Vortigern. In every respect, this was not the king he knew, and yet…

“That is something I can not honor, my king.” Bedivere said, interlocking his hands and resting them on the table, his head down. “I heard word that when you were summoned, you were corrupted. Cruel and uncaring. One that would be willing to cut down our own Master if you so felt like it.”

The sound of chewing had stopped. Bedivere continued speaking.

“But yet… I can not believe it.”

He looked up at Arthur. She had put her food down, her expression filled with curiosity. Less of the childlike, bright curiosity he had seen flickering in the eyes of his sovereign, but more of the curiosity of a cat that had just seen a rat snared in a trap. Her gilded eyes bored into him, one thin eyebrow quirking.

“...Elaborate, Sir Bedivere.” She finally said, prompting him to speak.

“Because I saw you then. The day you passed on. The day you died.” He met her gaze, knowing that his own was filled with a sense of pity that may end up killing him. “You had to endure so much alone, so much as a king, and not as Arthur Pendragon. And I… I allowed you to. I can’t help but think that this form, this guise you’ve taken as an ‘Altered Servant’ is a response to that. A response for so many years where we ignorantly danced in merriment as you suffered in solitude.” He took a deep breath, standing up, and bowing his head.

“My king. My lord. The one who I swore to follow for eternity. If you could honor this simple knight's wish for you to be alone no longer, then I will forgo all my desires for the rest of my life as a Servant. If you would allow me to be by your side, not as a knight, and not as a blade, but as a compatriot. A true companion, then this hollow heart of mine will know happiness. That is all I wish. Not as Sir Bedivere of the Round, but as a man given a second chance.”

To see that moment of humanity in his king once more. To see that fleeting miracle up close, from an Arthur that was prosperous and living. If he had any wish for the Grail now, perhaps that would be it.

A moment passed. The shifting of movement and fabric as Bedivere looked up, watching as Arthur gathered her tray and began to walk off.

“My apologies, Sir Bedivere. I’ve lost my appetite.” She said, her voice bitter, her eyes obscured by pale bangs. He didn’t stop her, standing still as she drifted away. Of course, of course he squandered his opportunity beforehand. It was a thousand years too late for an apology, and an eternity too early to make such a selfish request. He bit his lip, slowly and dejectedly sitting back down, his jaw clenching in frustration.

“...It is ‘Artoria’.” A quiet voice said, cutting through his dejection.

Bedivere blinked, looking over at his retreating lord, who was staring back at him from the corner of her eye. Her icy gaze melting ever so slightly. He couldn’t see her lips, but the sound of a smile, no matter how small, rung in his heart like the most extravagant of bells.

Once more, she spoke.

“...You may call me Artoria.”


	8. Selfish

The Mage of Flowers. A wizard with clairvoyance far surpassing that of any human magician. He had allowed himself to be summoned to save humanity- which, now that he had the chance to think about it, was a role far too noble for someone like him. He had always found Chaldea to be an interesting place from the outside looking in, but it seemed… stranger to personally wander the halls. See faces that he would have never imagined seeing up close, and the faces of those who he knew far too well.

Those faces were of Artoria’s ridiculous knights, who had greeted him in a grand variety of ways, ranging from ‘Ah, welcome Lord Merlin!’ to ‘Ugh, him?’.

...Frankly, he felt he deserved a bit more respect from the knights who looked at him as if he was truly scum, but that was neither here nor there.

He was just leaving the Command Room after a rather insightful talk with the Caster Da Vinci concerning the next Rayshift, and ran into Chaldea’s- or, rather ‘his’ at this point- Master. They seemed tired, their brow knitted tight as they folded their arms, as if in deep, contemplative thought. 

“Good evening, Master of Chaldea.” Merlin said, cordially, hoping that just because he was present didn’t mean that he was the person to unload whatever concerns they had onto. Not when Da Vinci, who was probably much better at these sorts of things, was mere meters away.

“Good Evening, Merlin,” Fujimaru replied, Merlin frowning slightly when he realized that, yes, Fujimaru Ritsuka was going to confide in him. “...Do you have a moment?” Came the inevitable question.

Merlin sighed, trying to think of some kind of excuse, before deciding to simply suck it up this time around. He was far from the best person to deal with emotions and feelings, but it would be doing his Master a disservice to abandon him in a time of need. He smiled, somewhat tiredly with a nod. “I suppose I have some free time. Let’s walk and talk, shall we?” He gestured, allowing his Master to lead the way. 

“I don’t think Alter likes it here.” Fujimaru began, and Merlin immediately felt out of his depth.

“Artoria?” Merlin asked, although the answer was obvious. Chaldea’s summoning system was… odd and impractical, really only keen on calling forth the Spirit Origins of different Servants during different times of the year, and while certain times were better for summoning Altered Servants, Chaldea had only managed to call forth the one.

Not seeming to mind Merlin’s rhetorical question, they nodded. “Right. I’ve been trying to make her comfortable, though. But it just doesn’t seem to be working. She’s been getting in fights, and she’s hard to talk to, and she spends a lot of time in the simulation chamber training.”

Merlin nodded. He at least knew of the… spats that Artoria was finding herself in. She and Sir Gawain had been getting into the habit of dueling for days on end, breaking for inane amounts of time, and then going back to dueling. He truly couldn’t fathom what those two blond-headed twits were trying to prove.

“I thought the knights would be happy, since they always spoke so highly of her, but… I think I messed up.” Fujimaru continued, eyes downcast.

‘Ah, there it is’, Merlin thought, proud of himself for being able to pick out the problem so quickly. Although… perhaps the problem was simple enough that he shouldn’t be too proud of himself. Still, from an objective standpoint he understood. Theoretically, Chaldea’s summoning system could summon multiple different Artoria’s- from different, parallel histories to simply altered Saint Graphs, or even the ‘true’ Artoria for this world. Despite the (frankly ludicrous) odds of summoning some version of a cheerful, optimistic, kingly Artoria- the Master of Chaldea had only managed to call forth the dour, tyrannical version.

Honestly, Merlin thought it was hilarious when he found out, but he kept that little tidbit to himself.

“Well, Sir Master, perhaps you didn’t leave enough food at the summoning circle?” Merlin asked with a wry grin, that immediately dropped when Fujimaru gave him a pitiful look that implied that they had used food as a catalyst, they had used a lot, and those efforts were ultimately useless. “Oh.” He was all he managed to tack on, lamely.

Merlin frantically searched for something to say, glancing toward the ceiling. “...Frankly, I don’t think you messed up at all.”

Fujimaru raised an eyebrow, prodding for Merlin to elaborate. “...What I mean is, in some form, the King of Knights saw fit to answer the call. And frankly, outside of being a bit more cruel, I don’t truly understand what’s so ‘altered’ about this version.”

“Mash says that Galahad thinks she’s terrifying and vulgar.” Fujimaru replied.

“...I don’t see how that contradicts what I said.” Merlin retorted, with a smirk. “The knights that you summoned knew her as a king. The unyielding, golden King of Knights that could do no wrong. However, I knew her beforehand- as a petulant, arrogant, stablehand who couldn’t tell the pommel from the blade.” A strange feeling welled up inside Merlin for a moment. Warm, yet melancholy, although he didn’t pay it too much heed. “A foolish girl who gave up her own happiness to see the happiness of others, and didn’t care for consequences.”

He thought about ‘Artoria Alter’ for a moment. They hadn’t spoken, which was fine with him, he didn’t feel as if he was ready to speak with any version of Artoria. There was too much to say. They had both seen the end of the Kingdom they had cherished, and yet he wasn’t there at the end, foolishly trapped within the Tower of Avalon. To speak to her again, he wasn’t sure whether to begin with an apology or a warm hug. To bow or to laugh. To grimace or to smile. 

But it was strange. This… ‘Artoria Alter’, the King of Knights who ‘chose to be a tyrant’, he could tell that wasn’t out of selfishness. She became cruel not because she wished to oppress others, burn down towns, or wallow in riches. She became cruel because she had given up her humanity, and felt that was the best way to rule. He could imagine the split, where the bright eyes of the stable girl who pulled the Sword of Selection glazed over in horror when Uther Pendragon’s mage had shown her the future of Camelot.

Ruin. Flames. Bodies as far as the eye could see. And her at the top of it, alone. 

The Artoria he knew had seen it as something ‘inevitable, but able to be delayed’, and therefore worked to make Camelot prosper despite the wars threatening to tear it apart, and the very World itself trying to rip Camelot from its place on Earth. 

Perhaps this ‘Altered’ Artoria saw it as something inevitable as well, and so she wanted to burn Camelot’s name into history no matter what. Perhaps she tried to rule as a kind king for years, before realizing that the people wouldn’t listen, and the wars wouldn’t stop, and her knights weren’t able to give up their human sins and passions like she had, and therefore would only weigh Camelot down. Therefore, the only way to keep Camelot alive was through force, holding down the line by herself as the magic was drained from the land, and the Picts and Romans came en masse. 

All he could do was speculate, and that was it. For he knew Artoria, and he knew that such a tale would never escape her lips. For the one foundation of the King of Knights was this: she suffered in silence, and used her blade as her voice. Be it the shining light of the true Excalibur singing a song for the Britons to rejoice under, or the darkened light of the Altered blade chanting for victory and destruction no matter the cost. 

However, that was in the past. Again, for all he could do was speculate. The mage had gone silent for a long time, his own brow beginning to knit. 

Artoria didn’t smile for herself. She had forced herself to be devoid of selfishness, but that didn’t mean she didn’t smile. She only smiled when others were happy. When others flourished, that brought the pure, young king happiness. But this Artoria was different.

Her smiles were selfish. She smiled before large meals, or exciting fights. During contests of wits with any unfortunate Servants that dared to speak to her, she smirked with a sense of pride and deviousness that he hadn’t seen. Or… well, dared not to speak of.

And yet, was that wrong? For the King of Knights to finally, after a life devoid of personal joys, finally indulge herself… was that truly a sin? The Knights of the Round were flawed, arrogant people, but they had seen their King as the truest saint of all. The pressure must have been immense back then, and for it to only continue now certainly couldn’t be doing the king any good.

But the point was, despite her smiles being selfish, they were still _her_ smiles. She smiled whenever the Master of Chaldea came up with a good battle strategy, or had an upgrade for her Saint Graph. She smiled when the cooking staff announced something on the menu that she enjoyed. She smiled when Gawain would approach her for a duel, or when Tristan would play alone on his harp thinking nobody was listening. Even recently, he found her smiling around the ever-so-ordinary Sir Bedivere.

Such petty smiles unbefitting the King of Knights, but this wasn’t the ‘King of Knights’ that had forged her name through history by being polite and honorable. This was a flaw in the summoning system, a glitch in the Throne that summoned forth an ‘Artoria who could be human’.

“Um, Merlin? Why are you smiling?” Fujimaru asked, and the mage realized he had been doing far more thinking in comparison to actually speaking. He shrugged.

“I truly don’t have much of an opinion on this matter, Sir Master. Sorry. But I don’t think you messed up.” He stated, idly palming his staff as a familiar sound of footsteps echoed through the quiet halls of Chaldea. 

Artoria Alter walked up to Master, arms crossed. “Master.” She began, sternly.

“...Yes?” The Master of Chaldea asked, their nervousness palpable.

“I would like to request a Rayshift. There is somewhere we need to train to prepare you to the final pseudo-singularity.” She suggested- or… commanded seemed more fitting, based on her tone. The ‘request’ part was just her being ‘nice’, but she’d drag them along no matter the answer.

Fujimaru glanced at Merlin, their eyes pleading for some sort of assistance. The mage gave them a faux-pleasant wave and began walking off, not paying Artoria any acknowledgement, and she did the same towards them. It was as if neither of them existed in each other's eyes, and that was fine. When the right time came, they would speak their first words to each other, and finally find out where their feelings truly lie.

“Alright, I guess. Let me just get a party ready.” His Master said, and Merlin heard a light chuckle come from Artoria.

“Good. This will be difficult, but if you command me and the other well then we will reward ourselves with a feast afterwards.” The corrupted king said proudly. Merlin stifled a chuckle, his robes swaying calmly as he left Fujimaru to the mercy of the Altered Servant, before turning back to watch them shuffle into the Command Room.

A flaw in the summoning system. A glitch in the Throne that allowed the virtuous King of Knights to be summoned with a different set of values and experiences. Yet the heart was the same, and perhaps even the dream.

“One day the Master of Chaldea will finally save the world, and your dream will come to an end once more...” Merlin said, a hint of sadness in his voice. This feeling, seeing an Artoria that was willing to be selfish and arrogant. To have her own personal wants and interests, and yet still yearn for others to improve and grow alongside her.

For a moment, his vision wavered. He saw a grassy field, a lone sword beginning to rust, embedded in a stone. A young girl approached it, her glittering eyes filled with both a sense of reluctance and a sense of purpose. A man in white robes, his hair adorned with flowers and his aura glistening yet mischievous approached the girl, a knowing yet pensive smile on his face.

‘It’s better if you think it through before pulling that blade.’ The robed mage had said.

The girl had turned to him, shocked. ‘Ah, you surprised me.’ She said, her tone immaculate and polite. A small look of solemnity crossed her face. ‘...This is the first time we’ve met outside of a dream, right, Lord Merlin?’

The mage didn’t answer, again reiterating his point. ‘Not to offend you, but it truly is better if you stop. Once you pull that sword, you’ll no longer be a ‘human’. Not only that, but you’ll be despised by all kinds of people, and you’ll die a truly horrendous death.’ A vision of the future. A kingdom, standing for many years, before finally coming to an end. A hill. A long figure in shining silver armor, slowly bleeding to death upon it. A horrendous end. The only true ending.

The girl persisted, gripping the sword by the hilt. A sadness that was far beyond her young years filled her eyes, and yet…

She was smiling.

‘...So, is it truly alright with you?’ The mage asked, once more.

While they had seen the same vision, and the same horrendous end, she had seen the people. The people who followed her, the smiles and faces that she was willing- that she was obligated to respect.

The sword was pulled, raised into the air. The mage didn’t understand why a human would give up their humanity and choose the hardest path. Maybe he never could. But no matter the world- the timeline- the events that followed, the person who pulled the sword was always the same. Someone who was willing to become truly and utterly selfish, despised by many and loved by few.

No matter what, that was the Once and Future King.

Merlin’s hands gripped tightly around his staff, bowing his head ever so slightly.

“I truly hope you enjoy this selfish dream of yours to the fullest… Artoria.”


End file.
